Alone. A loner. I fear, I have no home. A safe place to roam. I pace but don’t go. The Earth is just a loan.


For Who?

You spend a million moments

wrestling the truth.

Or waste away a thousand wonders

reflecting on your youth.

Regrets fall flat; forget all that.

A search can birth a blossom.

Bud a bloom, a youthful you,

And touch so much; the possible.


You tend to gaze at your own life

through a one-side point-of-view.

Or dig in depths to find the words

when the point is far and through.

You mean so well. You prob’ly know.

It’s more like, “What to do?”

A constant tear and nagging fear.

A dull and digging gloom.


Pretend the world was built for more,

but together it dies too.

A season comes, grows, changes, goes,

and maybe, so do you.

But time can race or stop or slow.

It’s more like, “For who?”

A question. A forward quest in thought,

an answer part of you.


The Seam between the Horizon

Unresolved conflict.

Internal residue of a once free-flowing river.

Now clogged, stagnant and stale.

Speaks lies to you.

Sends you places —

misfit and misguided.

You ask why you’re always the victim.

You can’t deny,

life’s thrown you down.


in the stale sea of feelings, swirling around

with every movement — mix together.

There’s no escape.

Struggling, as your chin bobs,

trying not to go under, you look up.

The sky, a vibrant and beautiful wonder.

Such a peaceful sight

despite your troubles.

Bubbles in your mouth as you blow,

breathe in and choke.

Your eyes close.

Momentarily, you lose sight.

But your eyes open again

to a glimpse of Heaven’s light

The seam between the horizon —

a peek beyond it.

A diminishing moment.

Turns dusk, turns night.

You feel alone.

You could let the darkness consume you.

But you don’t.

That moment of light,

the end of a tunnel — so bright,

exposed your soul.

Possibilities, dreams, hope.

Darkness is always broken by light.

You fight.

Tread water

until a little sliver,

waves of glimmer,

reach the shore and your eyes.



Up and out

onto land that’s dry.

Feet firm but ready to fly.

Remnants of a Goodbye

A goodbye —

the faint trail it leaves behind.

I find it, when I turn to look.

A mirage that blocks reality

ripples into what’s seen.

Feelings imprinted through memory.

Glance just briefly.

Mistakes take me — reminiscing.

Remember things into existence.

The faded and dried remnants

of something lost forever —

from a dry, deserted home.

Redemption. . .will never come.

Moments passed without remaining relevant in this life

come back to pierce like a knife.

Completely different — presence sealed in fate.

Dreams are meant to reach — not remake.


Free Flow: Let it Go.

Sat back and let it rap.

Thoughts stashed.

My flow breaks glass.

Rising to be independently presented

as a metaphor for the risen.

I’ve made a point to present it

with purpose pure and pleasant.


Sent away by mal-intent.

Casted away from Misunderstanding —


I had no chance. My life stirred in resentment.


How could it be?

Seeking more, I flee

from all those who could never interpret me,

see me as a threat,

or once used me so I could never forget

pain from the doubt I once had.

Not for them but for myself.


I thought I was worthless.

So I did things knowing I’d regret.

Vision blurry — so unfocused.

Can’t remember because I went unnoticed.

At least to me. So desperately

wanted to be free.

From this body —

Scrape this cracked skin off of me.

Bleed onto the floor.

No perimeter — free.


Shake this false sense of security.

Break boundaries farther than any eye can see —


Free from identity,

labels and category.

Not defined by others but self proclamation

State and claim

a revelation.

What I Write For

I write to defend against sin we daily live in.


Negativity is sticky —

like a hot, humid day.

It can drag you down and away.

It can drag you into the mountain’s

valleys — an endless “there.”

The farther down the thicker the air.


I write encouragement for courage to sin again.

It will happen. But a different outlook changes the perspective.

Objective. Consider what subject can change direct.

Forgiveness does reflect

from a painful, slow death.


I write to create something beautiful.

Something beautiful, to remember

that such possibilities do exist.

Even when doubt fills your lips.

Even when pins prick your resting nerves —

you get what you deserve.


How can you resist?

Distant death’s a miss.

You’ve escape the bondage.


I write to release — make a cure from a disease.

Personal glory and freedom.

Belief undone from one.

Your consciousness — just be them.

Creation stems to everyone.

If we all would be connected — un-objected,

continuously adjusting and redirecting,

our goals form a beautiful image.

Each piece placed together — a perfect fit.


I write to connect, reflect, and redirect.

It’s a piece of me I share because it’s meant to hear.

Sometimes, just for me, but sometimes, I touch a heart.

The chance to heal. I hold dear.

And that reason is a start.

Paper Wall

Hanging from this paper wall — swinging side-to-side.

It seems to be important that my hands hold on tight.

If I hang on long enough, I might, swing to the other side. 

Hanging from this paper wall — love’s final desperate cry.

Chasing fantasy, calling it destiny is all I’ve known my whole life.

Comforting is never comfortable and I believe my own lies.

Hanging from this paper wall, I finally said goodbye.

I had to fall to let go; but now my feet can climb.